I Can't See
by jbosco
Summary: Bosco recalls the events over the past years that led him to where he is now. Post GBC six years.


**Title -** I Can't See  
**Disclaimer -** I don't own the characters, just borrowing :)  
**Genre: **Angst. Lots of it.

Author's note: The continuation of this story will be written as a follow-up. I don't want to confuse the people who first read it when it was "I Can't See" at twnet. :)

Lyrics are "Blind" by Lifehouse.

* * *

_Still I have the pain I have to carry;  
a past so deep that even you could not bury if you tried_

I watched her leave the precinct around eleven twenty. She was pulling on her jacket as she trotted lithely down the stairs of the 7-9, the same way she did every night at the end of the shift. We'd both kept the third watch when we transferred. I don't think either of us could have adjusted to another schedule, anyway…three to eleven was just natural.

She whisked her blonde hair behind her, picking up her pace as she reached the end of the steps. I was standing next to the front desk, imagining the 5-5 and how it used to be setup. I often imagine my old precinct and everyone from it. Sure I see them from time to time, but Faith and I were the only two that had been moved to another house with their original partner. My memories of Camelot haven't run dry, or anything, but I've made so many new ones here in Bedstuy, having been here six years, that it's more and more difficult to recall the reality of the old 5-5. Things are so bad now, that it's next to impossible for me to remember a place where I was, at times, happy.

I changed out of my uniform by now…I could have left twenty minutes ago, but I waited. There with Major Cases she usually gets stuck in the office for a bit longer. Tonight is an early night though…normally I wait until at least 12:30 for her to emerge, so when I saw her heading for the door, I quickly shot my head up. I was too late, though…she'd past me. She'd past me with out saying a word…a common occurrence for the past six years.

I gather all the strength I can manage and call after her. Her name sounds almost foreign to my lips…not natural like it used to. My tone is hopeful…much like a child's. But she doesn't notice. She doesn't even turn around at the sound of her name. She knows it's me, so she just calls out a friendly, superficial "Night, Bosco," and pushes her way out the door.

My throat burns when she disappears, and I have to turn and swallow hard to hold the tears down. It's not easy, but I'm getting pretty good at it. I only have to keep them down for a little bit – just until I've cleared myself from the bustling House and away from the familiar faces. When I get to my car, I can let them fall. Nobody can see me that way. So I take a deep breath and push my weight off of the desk, lumbering my way out to my Mustang. At least its one thing still going good in my life; she hasn't failed me yet. Although I notice she looks different in the 7-9 parking lot…almost…out of place.

I pull open her faded navy door and climb in, the tears burning my skin before I even start the engine. My foot is on the gas pedal before I even put it in gear, and I tear routinely from the lot. I'll follow her to her place tonight, like every night, and I'll sit there, by the curb, for a few hours and watch the window until the orange glow dims into nothing and fades with the blackness of the rest of the apartment.

_After all this time  
I never thought we'd be here  
never thought we'd be here  
when my love for you was blind  
but I couldn't make you see it  
couldn't make you see it  
that I loved you more than you'll ever know  
a part of me died when I let you go_

I never put much thought into the future. I always preferred to take things day by day, you know, live for the minute, I guess. Ma always told me that was best. Sure she looked forward to me settling down, having a family, taking it easy. She

told me that time and time again, but the words mostly came out on the days I wound up bruised or battered from some lackluster job of obtaining a suspect. When things were routine and subtle, she'd only here and there make such references. Funny, I thought, how certain misfortunes seem to make people think so much more philosophically. And I don't count myself out of that, either. I'm as guilty as the next. When the beat was quiet and uneventful, I rarely thought twice about losing the person beside me. There was enough tragedy traveling around to remind me every now and then, but for the most part, I never dwelled on losing her.

It had scared me to death when she'd had cancer. Being as typically pessimistic as I was, I certainly saw the possibility of losing her. But it didn't freak me out as bad as it would have, had I had to lose her to a bullet while we were on the street; something so messy, unpredictable and sudden. No warning, no symptoms – Just a shot, then dead. That was what terrified me whenever I did happen to let my mind trail to the thought of losing her. Most of the time, that happened when I arrived on the deadly scene of a shot officer; and I'd seen plenty over time. I'd stand over the fallen, watching solemnly as EMTs did their best to revive them. Sometimes, I'd kneel next to them and hold their hand. But every time, she'd be there with me, and I'd silently take my eyes off the dying to glance up at her. And I'd reluctantly realize that it could be her. I never thought much about myself though, in such terms, anyway. Sure, it came the with the territory, those fleeting moments of solicitude when it dawns on you how easy it would be to under calculate the second you have to jump from harm's way, or pull your gun from its holster, but I found myself more concerned for my partner.

It wasn't until I smuggled my way into Anti-Crime and into the disaster that Cruz turned out to be, that the true magnitude of losing her hit me. Rarely seeing her wasn't what sparked the sense, nor was losing our beat together. I was too caught up in lusting after Cruz and after our operations to realize that it was just as critical of a loss. She turned away when I went back to her, having tested the waters and deemed them too cold, and too rough. It was to be expected that she wouldn't stick around having been betrayed so abruptly. But I didn't reason. I realized my mistake, but I couldn't say for a minute that I expected her to really lay down the law then and there, refusing to help me for the first time in eleven years.

When she did, things came into focus a bit more. She wavered eventually, and I remember seeing her eyes the hope that she could salvage our relationship, our partnership…us. That's what I had in mind as well. I'd promised if she helped me just the one last time, I'd forever stay away from her, if that's what she wanted. She didn't answer that proposal, but I could clearly see it wasn't what she wanted. I can't explain why; had I been her I wouldn't have given in to begin with. I'd certainly have taken me up on the promise that I'd leave her alone, for good. But I was happy to see that glint in her sea-green eyes, like some sort of ocean scenery, with an iridescent sun peaking up on the horizon. I'd never been too great at analogies, but I knew what I saw. It was caution, interchanged with every last morsel of hope she had left in her after what I'd put her through.

She hadn't told me to swear I'd really leave after I offered, and I knew she'd come around after I sorted things out with Cruz. My nerves were running wild on that hurried drive to Noble's, but I was brimming with the same avidity to simply end the war between us, and get back to 55-David, and to my uniform where I was most comfortable.

It wasn't that I imagined some sort of blissful fairytale ending to the ordeal; I still had a load of shit to clear in the way of Cruz and all the critical fabrications she'd put my name on. But I was blinded, I guess, by the new found glint of optimism I was hanging on to.

_I would fall asleep  
only in hopes of dreaming_

I found myself hanging onto less and less hope as the time progressed, and I was able to sneak less and less visits to her room when Fred wasn't present, until she finally spoke those two words.

How they'd torn me inside so badly, allowing me to back away only so I couldn't be caught crying. Should they have hurt me that much? I wasn't sure. I had told her I'd leave, if that's what she wanted, so should I have been surprised when she looked at me weakly and said, "Go away"? True, I had promised her so much, but I had seen something in her eyes that told me that wouldn't be necessary. That things would work out, and we'd be okay. I don't doubt, though, that she never bargained to be shot.

So we went our separate ways. I went back to the beat with Sasha, and Faith went off with her family. Funny, all those years I'd believed I was a part of it. When she returned, finally, I still found myself spending half the shift outside her apartment, under the fraud that an injured officer should have another outside for protection. It had been a while, and she was up and moving again, so this wasn't a good enough excuse for Sasha, who argued that we should be patrolling instead. But after all, standing out on that curb, looking up at the window, was as close to her as I could be.

I was adamant about not giving that up, despite what my fellow co-workers had told me. Sully's words often spun around in my head. He'd told me to leave them alone, to leave her alone. But I couldn't do it. I refused to sit and watch us slip further away. I was going to fix things. I was going to take things day by day, like Ma used to advise.

I tried to do just that, but as each day passed, I found it more and more difficult to obey my own word. I went over and over the fateful scene in that hotel room; how completely helpless she had appeared when she was frantically wheeled into Mercy on a stretcher. I replayed that in my mind so many times, along with Emily's reminders of how miserable her mom was. Hell, I can't say I wouldn't be if I found out I would never walk again.

So I stopped believing we'd be okay.

A part of me stopped wanting us to be okay.

Not because I didn't miss her any more, not because I iliked/i being partnered with Monroe, not because I didn't long for 55-David. Not for any of those reasons. Instead, I ceased my hopes to regain our partnership on the critical thought that I was always behind things when they went bad. Again, it was selfish on my part. I didn't want her hurt again, but even more so, I didn't want to lose her. It wasn't so much her being injured; it was being injured as a result of ime/i. I wasn't sure I could handle that burden; that constant thought that I might screw up and lose her — permanently.

So when she suddenly returned to duty, fueling more anger from long-becoming-unsupportive Fred, I just told her I couldn't return to 55-David with her. I told her I couldn't handle the responsibility. She said I wasn't responsible for her.

But I was.

I had been for our entire career, and I'd failed miserably countless times.

I wasn't prepared to do that again. If it meant I couldn't be with her in 55-David, like I had longed to be again, I would reluctantly accept that.

She stubbornly objected my refusal to be partnered back up again, an aspect of her that was all too in-character. I had little choice but to accept, against my better wishes. I was hesitant pulling out of parking lot with her riding shotgun; for the first time in many, many lengthy months. It had felt like years.

Things were awkward on our first shift. In fact, that's a pretty weak word. If I could think of a stronger one, I'd use it. We didn't talk about things like we used to; about her kids, or my latest lay. We didn't joke. We hardly smiled. I tried to bring up her family, as casually as I could, but she shot the topic down. I remember cringing. The silence between us had been so unnatural. I had been wrong in my assumption that things would skate back to normal so long as we were in the same car.

They remained far from normal for awhile, and I remember housing this depressing feeling that we were some kind of strangers. Like the person you run into in some store, or on the street, that you know…you know their face, their eyes…you've seen them before. And you know their voice and their body language…so you must have heard them before; must have spent time with them. But there's a wall between you. You know this person so well, but it's as if someone has taken all of your history together; all your conversations, all your countless years spent together, your secrets exchanged, laughs shared; all of it, wiped away as if it had been written on a chalkboard. And there's nothing left between the two of you, except for both of your lives, a tiny billow of dust…probably the New York winter air you puff out as you try to make up conversation again.

I went to see Ma a lot during that time. She was always eager to give her wise advice, knowing full well that her obstinate oldest son probably wouldn't take it. What she didn't know was that I often took her words to heart; I had only one other person to go to, only one other person I could talk to in my life, and I'd become unknown to her, and her unknown to me. All, it seemed, overnight. So when Ma said to let time heal wounds, I listened.

She was right. I didn't give up after several uncomfortable shifts in 55-David where all we could seem to find to say to one another was, "Damn it's freezin' out here," or "Damn, it's even colder today". Sometimes we'd break the record and say things like, "I guess it wasn't_ that_ cold today,". That was probably the longest sentence we shared, aside from anything work-related, during our first week together again. And maybe it would have been funny, if we'd found it in ourselves to laugh. But we never did.

Not for about another week, anyway. Gradually, I could feel ourselves slipping into our old routine, and I remember thanking God - or somebody…I wasn't really sure who…for that. I felt like I was walking on eggshells as we seemingly danced our way back, trying to prepare myself to once again find myself sitting beside someone who was no longer anything to me but a mere acquaintance.

A good month passed during our transition, and we felt, I derived, as comfortable as ever. It wasn't as if we could put behind us what had happened, or that we did, for that matter, but we talked. Just like we used to. She told me how things at home had virtually fallen apart since she decided to go back to work. I'd been supportive, but I was everything but surprised. On lighter notes, she told me that the kids were pulling through despite the turmoil with her and Fred. I'd tell her about Ma and about Mikey, if there was ever any news to tell from my side. We talked, and we talked. We were making up for lost time.

And we laughed, too.

We laughed more than not on our shifts, just like we used to.

I never thought I'd find myself in such a blissful state after all that had occurred. I'd never once looked in at her when she lay pitifully in that hospital bed, and thought that we'd been back in 55-David again not too much later. I didn't wait outside her apartment believing she'd wake up one morning having had regained the use of her legs.

But I was proven wrong.

Of course, I could rarely recall a time where this sort of happiness wasn't short-lived. Sure enough, there was enough tragedy in store to try and pull us apart for good. It was like some greater power was playing with us; trying to see how bad things could get before we finally gave up for good.

When Mikey was murdered, I was sure that was the final straw. Not for us, mind you, but for me. I never talked about him, rarely even with Faith. And with Ma, well I listened to her…to her painful grieving. For the most part, though, she'd turned back to dad…or whatever poor excuse for a father he'd always been. I felt bad not visiting her much, but he and I came to blows whenever I did. I began to stop caring and feeling guilty. After all, in a way, she'd chosen him over me.

So I spent many nights alone, downing whiskey and other countless titles of liquor; virtually anything alcoholic within my reach. It wasn't something I was doing consciously; just something I did out of…despair. I could have turned to Faith during the whole ordeal, she'd offered me innumerable times out to talk. I never took her up on it though, feeling as if I'd intrude, and make worse the disaster she was already battling with Fred. Instead, I kept everything inside.

And I don't doubt I'd have drowned in a pool of alcoholism and depression had things with Donald Mann not progressed so soon after we found Mikey. It seemed that I'd met yet another chapter of hell in my life, only to be greeted with yet another the moment that ended. For God's sake, I didn't even get to attend my brother's wake in full before I was dodging cars, bombs and trying desperately to save my mother.

I remember being at Mercy as if it were the other day. It doesn't feel like it was over six years ago, it feels like it was yesterday. And it feels like it was today, and it'll feel like its tomorrow, too. I relieve it every single morning, and night. I remember pacing angrily back and forth in the lobby, surrounded by Ty, Cruz and Faith. Blood was streaking from my cheekbone from where my face had met a relentless shard of glass when that rigged car plowed through the building. My lungs were working overtime, fueled by the rage I felt rushing through me. Had I not started to piece together Mann's involvement in Mikey's death, and had the anger not gotten the best of me, I'd have broken down into a heap of desperate defeat. I'd have given up then and there, because the loss had been too much.

Instead of forfeiting, though, I stood and wracked my brains for answers. I had little time to find any, however, before I was face to face with Mann's accomplices and staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic.

The doctors said I wouldn't remember what happened immediately preceding the attack; or much before that, either. Said something about the damage the bullet did to my head, or something, and how it might have screwed with my memory. Sure, there were things I'd forgotten as a result, but those seconds…those split, yet slow-motion seconds…I don't think _anything_ could erase them.

I'd stood frozen before the weapons. I knew only for a millisecond, but things weren't moving at the normal rate of speed in that instance. I had time to think. See, everyone thought my reaction was sudden…innate. But instead I had froze, and it seemed like time did for a fraction of a second, as well. Ma was in surgery, and with the odds against me as they'd been for so long, I had little hope that she'd recover. And on top of that, Mikey was gone. Not just gone, but tortured, murdered, beheaded and gone. I knew my Ma's condition wasn't promising, but at least I could pretend; pretend that maybe she'd pull through…by some miraculous change of luck. But with Mikey, there was no room for miracles…no possibilities. He was just gone.

And then there was Faith.

She was sitting behind me, because I heard her voice warning us of the oncoming danger. I'd been so close to losing her so many times…but yet, there she was…sitting behind me…directly in the line of fire – the damn greater power crap again — and yet, very much alive. It was that realization…that I could save the very last person I had left…that sent me twisting backward on my heel and stepping before the gun that was leveling with her head, pulling her down as fast as I could, and covering her the best way I knew…using my body as a shield.

I never described those seconds to anybody; I just let them assume I couldn't remember…or that it was all a blur of some sort. But my resolution was clear: I'd have rather died than lived without her. I loved her, so I needed no further reason for doing what I did…but I do recall some selfishness in there somewhere. If she'd been killed…what would I have had? With Mikey gone, all I could figure was that Ma would die, too, and I'd have no one. And I'd always had few people to go to in my life…never did I not have _somebody_, so the idea was scary. It was either Faith or Ma. And if they were gone, what was I supposed to do? I panicked. I never took into consideration…not in those seconds, or in the subsequent months, that perhaps she felt the same way. I'd been modest and told myself she didn't need me, but I never stopped and considered that she did. That maybe she didn't want to open her eyes after the gunfire had stopped, and roll my lifeless body over and watch the blood pour from four different exit wounds…

I remember coming out of my coma. The doctors told Ma I wouldn't remember that, either, but I did. I still do. I was delirious and dizzy, and although I had a million words to say, I just couldn't sort them out well enough. My throat hurt too, and I remember being so thirsty. I couldn't talk. I could see though, and I was elated. Ma was there…I knew I'd heard her voice when I was coming to, but I'd thought it was some dream, you know, 'cause I didn't think she'd lived. But she had, and she was back to her normal yapping routine. I'd never been happier to be subjected to whatever nonsense she felt like rambling on about that day. She was alive; that was all that mattered.

She held my hand and kept repeating that everything was okay, that she was there, and I was fine. I didn't feel fine, but I could see and I could think and feel…I remember being enraged beyond words when the nurses rushed in, acting as if I were still in some vegetative state and that opening my eyes had just been some subconscious reflex. I was in there, though, and I wanted to scream and tell everyone that. Again, I couldn't talk. So I just lay there instead, taking in the whole situation…trying to make sense of things, when suddenly, it hit me.

The entire shooting scene came flooding back to me. I realized why I was laying the hospital, though I wasn't sure why me waking up was such a big deal to everyone…I hadn't yet figured out I'd been in a coma for three months. All I wanted to know was if Faith was alive.

When Ma finally brought up how excited she was to call and tell Faith that I was awake, I settled back into the strangely familiar stiffness of the pillows in relief. Water could wait.

Faith came and visited me as often as she could. She told me how she'd made Detective…and she told me how Fred had filed for divorce, and I'd told her he was a jerk, stupid…whatever I thought might make her feel less of loss…while inwardly I was thinking it was the best thing the jagoff could ever have done for her. She told me about the kids…how she feared she'd lose them because of her job…because she wasn't always home. I'd held her hand, hoping that would be enough since I still had difficulty speaking. For the most part, I just watched her and listened, and I think that was enough, really.

I was so blinded by the relief…by the realization that she was alive, that it took me a while before I started to wonder about things; before I started taking offense. I didn't know how many developments I'd slept through, but they were slowly creeping into light. I started to wonder why she never elaborated on her Detective status. She never told me why she was promoted, and I never asked, of course. She was a great cop, so what better grounds did the department need? The only reason I silently questioned it was because together, we'd both seen many deserving cops who'd never been offered the advancement. Back then, I wasn't sure what I'd missed…but I felt like I'd gone to sleep, and I'd woken up to find some kind of wall between me and everyone else. It was like there was some terrible secret they were all keeping from me.

Why I threw those words "I saved your life" back at her months later, quite a while after I'd recovered from my coma and decided I was ready to go back to work, I still don't know. Six years later, I can understand my frustration, but I can't grasp why I'd of said something that I couldn't have meant _less._

The best explanation I could give was that I feared losing my job…my life, in other words. Maybe it was a combination of betrayal…having woken up to find her Detective…not waiting anxiously for me to return to the streets with her.

It didn't strike with me at the time, but looking back, I was mirroring – to some degree – the comeback she'd made a year prior. She'd boldly stated that she was ready to return, and against everyone's better judgment, she did. I was doing the same. The only difference was that she'd been fit for duty, and I wasn't. Never, though, was I going to admit that. I was going to fight, and try, and try some more and if necessary, I was going to wheedle my way back onto the force.

I managed. I practiced and practiced and practiced some more. And I hit the target enough times to requalify. But my vision hadn't really improved. It hadn't gotten iworse/i, but it hadn't gotten better, either. It wasn't a completely legit requalification, but I'd been desperate.

_After all this time  
I never thought we'd be here  
never thought we'd be here_

I've been here almost an hour, my car ignition turned to accessory so I can play the radio softly. As usual, my thoughts were louder than the tunes coming from the scratchy speakers. I used to think about replacing them – the speakers, not my thoughts – but somewhere along the line I lost whatever zeal I had for keeping my prized car up to date or anything. All it was now was a vector to get me from point A to point B, and that was okay.

At the end of tomorrow's shift I'll leave the locker room and stand at the front desk again, and wait for her to come down the stairs. And I'll hope that this time she looks up at me when she says her obligatory goodbye, and if she does I'll stop caring that there are other people around, and I won't wait until I get to my car to let the tears fall.

If she doesn't, I'll just try again the next day. And the next. Ma asks me how long I'm going to try, but all I can do is look at her and ask if she still believes that time heals wounds. She doesn't know how to contradict her own advice, so she usually doesn't answer. I know six years isn't the kind of time she meant, but what else am I gonna say when she questions how long I'm gonna continue stalking my ex-partner and her new husband?

You know, Faith was right. I couldn't see back then, and I still can't now. I couldn't see why she'd moved on without me, when we'd always waited for each other. And I can't see why I'm leant back in the weathered seat of my GT, looking hopelessly up at her window as if I think maybe she'll suddenly decide to leave him, and come back to me.

Maybe it's a ridiculous hope; one with no indication of ever prevailing. Maybe it's a useless waste of time. That's what my new partner tells me. But if he's right, then I've wasted six years already, so I'd always justify, "What's a couple more?" and he'd just stares at me rather piteously and shake his head.

I clear my throat, even though there's no one next to me that I'm preparing to speak to. Instead I mumble to myself: "1…2…," I concentrate hard on her window, one of the few still lit up in an orange glow at this time of night. "…3", I say routinely and with finality, watching the light go out on cue.

And her window falls into the sameness of the surrounding black squares, curtains closed partially. And begrudgingly, I turn the ignition. The sound of the radio dies as I turn the key, fading back on as the faithful engine roars on:

_After all this time  
would you ever want to leave it  
maybe you could not believe it  
that my love for you was blind  
but I couldn't make you see it  
couldn't make you see it  
that I loved you more than you will ever know  
a part of me died when I let you go_

_  
And I loved you more than you'll ever know  
a part of me died when I let you go…_


End file.
